If I Didn’t Think, I’d Be Much

Can A Selfish Egocentric Jealous And Unimaginative Female Write A Damn Thing Worthwhile?

The Slime Of All My Yesterdays Rots In The Hollow Of My Skull.

Love Is A Shadow. How You Lie And Cry After It

Every Day Is Precious And I Feel Infinitely Sad At This Time Melting Away From Me.

The Door Of The Novel, Like The Door Of The Poem, Also Shuts. But Not So Fast, Nor With Such Manic, Unanswerable Finality.